Nursery Rhymes
by Windup Dollie
Summary: .SasuxGaaxSasu. Help me, where- where are you? Please... h-help..me. I Like It .Yaoi.
1. Sasuke

_Where were you? Where are you? Don't leave me. Help. Help._

_HELP._

_I hate you._

Ghostly dancing shapes, twisting and writhing at his feet. Ungodly forms cast into existence by Lady Tsukuyomi's light as it filters through the tangled branches of a bare poplar tree.

_Ahhh. It's… unh… where? Help. Please please just-_

Like most nights, these dark plays are interrupted as tracks break the snow they had called their stage. Shoes barely lift against the soft powder that dusts them with feather light caresses. Caresses that threaten to chill and take if left ignored for too long.

_Hot, it's anh.. so- hoootaaAHH!! Stop! It hurts, please, no... where-where?_

He stops. The boy whom has taken to these nightly strolls as of late. His eyes stay focused at his feet, every moment or two his view is obscured by the quick puffs that are his breaths. He hasn't brought his jacket.

_I'm scared. Help. No, d-don't just, ahh! dont Watch. Help me, you said- you said you would- nononono stop, please._

_**You said you would protect me, Aniki. So why are you just sitting there? Help me. I'm scared.**_

_**I hate you.**_

_**S-Sto**__p unh- no… please, no._

'_Does it feel good?'_

Eyes- as void as all that which is contained between Tsukuyomi and her stars raise themselves to that very place. The darkness that threatens to consume those points of light, but never can. He stands unmoving, in the middle of a deserted road in the dead of a winter night, and ponders on it.

'_Does it feel __**good?**__'_

He figures, as the cold sets in and he loses the feeling in his cheeks, that the night sky is like a pond- filled to the brim with glass. Shattered, dangerous edges- He imagines- glinting in the light of a thousand candles, and reflecting every moment the children of every generation had ever felt hurt, abandoned, alienated, and scorned in their depths.

This is the Void of Space.

But scattered amid the pond's jagged waves are pillows. Yes, He smiles- he smiles and sees them with his head tilted back and eyes wide, though they aren't seeing the sky. It is the pillows, Made of the down of countless doves, sewn together with the love of a new mother, and kissed right in the center, for good luck. And these blessed- his smile grows- these few, so very few, blessed packages: to touch them is to relive every tender embrace shared between the young and in love. They taste of innocence.

These are the Glow of Distant Suns.

But they fade so in the presence of the main attraction. His mind recalls this familiar image.

That within the pond of shattered glass, and the sparse comforts of the mother's pillows, lays an angel. She bleeds atop the glass, her pale skin marred by many a scratch and scar. By bruises and tears. And of course, blood. Gallons of it painting the scene around her body, dousing the glow of those blessed pillows, and dampening the slash of the pond's waves. It soaks into her hair, her wings, her torn white gown, and it stains her lips. She is dying there- Though he is not saddened by this, not in the least. Because while she dies, lying unmoving in this stagnant pool of despair and hope. Hurt and comfort. Her exhausted eyes remain open, and her arms are outspread- she allows all to look upon her battered form. To gaze upon her beauty from the shore, or perhaps from the murky depths of the Void, and know that she will shine brightly, for the rest of your days.

Because those who have gotten close enough to see her, and the blood which leaks from her mouth and finger tips- have gotten too close. And won't live much longer.

She is Dying, she is Lady Tsukuyomi. She see's you, and escape from her- why would you try?

She is Captivating.

And he stands in the middle of the road in the dead of a winter night, and his hand is lifted out to her, that smile on his face. Her light enveloping his being, and dragging him closer.

He looks all that of a madman.

'_Does it feel good?'_

_**Yes.**_


	2. And Gaara

_**Birds of a feather flock together,  
**_

A file sitting innocently on a desk. Sheltered within its plain, manila envelope- not hurting anybody. Not yet that is. But at the moment it simply waits, in that unassuming nonchalant way inanimate objects tend to adopt. One pale, almost petit, hand fingers its wax seal as a guttural voice drones on in the background, like so much static. Kaze- The symbol of the Wind. An indent made by the force of a stamp into molten wax- amazing how one factor such as that, makes this particular, unassuming file so important. Top secret.

Wasting time is all this really is. Vaguely, the owner of a pair of petit hands muses on the fact that his 'debriefing' wasn't all that 'brief' this time around. After all, he'd heard it before. Again and again; the people changed, the setting changed, but the circumstance was always the same. As was the directive. "Kill."

Though he wasn't complaining, not at all. This, from the mission right down to these little grooves on a blood red seal, was all his country. All for his country. So despite the monotony, he would march on, like the good little soldier he was. Even if he felt as though he had no choice but to march, he did. And this led him to this room, with Suna's most powerful shinobi towering above him, snapping orders with a most sadistic look in his eyes. His marching led him to stand before this man, to bow, and to pluck the inconspicuous yet all important manila envelope from its place on the desk, and to bow again. With that, he left the room.

_**And so will pigs and swine;**_

"These accursed winters," He murmurs, yet does nothing to shake the chill from his body. It is his pride that disallows him to raise his trembling fingers to his lips, where he may blow life onto him. It even halts any thoughts of escaping to the trees, where he might find some comfort in no longer bringing his sandal clad feet through the snow. He is being watched, with all the likeness of a wild cat, a Nekomata* even, another is matching his every movement. But the male does not confront this unwanted guest, and after not long, perhaps a mile of silent walking, the stranger leaves him in favor of remaining within the village's borders. And he continues marching, the incident put out of his mind.

In privacy now, he allows himself to shrug away his stiff outward show and swipes those trembling fingers through bloody locks. "At Ease," is a muttered command that leaves numb lips, and he obeys himself, his hand falling back to his side where it remains for some time. He stands unmoving, unblinking, until he lets out a defeated sigh and crosses his arms in front himself and tucks each hand against his side. Sea-foam green eyes rise to the heavens.

_**Rats and mice will have their choice,**_

While being greatly obscured by the thick branches of the surrounding ever greens, one object shines brightly though with ease. Her light sickens him, but he watches her until his neck hurts and his eyes grow sore in their dryness. He jerks his head down then, only raising his eyes to stare straight ahead.

A ware house. Dilapidated and imposing, it lies directly at the end of his forest path, and the manila envelope tucked beneath his sash burns with meaning at the sight. A sickly grin splits his face, and he stumbles forward.

Now not just the bitter-bite of Sir Fuyu*'s winds, but Lady Tsukuyomi's mocking gaze press him onward. And he marches.

_**And so will I have mine.**_

* * *

* 'Nekomata':a two-tailed demon cat whom devours it's owner and wears the skin.

*'Sir Fuyu': Fuyu meaning Winter in Japanese.


End file.
